Arouse
by wouldyouliketoseemymask
Summary: a·rouse, v: to awaken from or as if from sleep, to stir up; excite. Crane/OC, sequel to "Intoxicating".
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**A/N: **So the other night, I reread my first Crane/OC fic, _Intoxicating_. I have been writing a sequel to it for a few months, called _Intrigue_. I've been unhappy with _Intrigue_ for a while, but I couldn't put my finger on exactly why. It wasn't until after I reread _Intoxicating_ that I decided to give a sequel another shot. I feel like I'm constantly going in circles with this pairing, and that's because I care so much about the characters and feel so passionate about them.

_Intrigue_ will stay up, and I will return to it, but for now I wanted to explore a different sequel, with a different storyline. Nothing wrong with expanding your horizons. If you liked my other Crane/Teagan fics then I hope you will give this one a shot.

I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

**Chapter 1**

"So, you're a new intern, huh?"

"That's right."

The Arkham Asylum guard's eyes travel hungrily across the girl walking alongside him. Young, maybe early twenties. Petite. Thick, curly blonde hair; he can tell by her eyebrows that it isn't her true hair color-probably dyes it. He snorts. Dames are always doing something to their appearance. He'll take a natural girl any day, _thank you very much_.

Still. This one ain't too bad looking.

"Guess you're probably way into that psychology mumbo jumbo, yeah?" He rolls his eyes and smacks his gum loudly, his disdain for that "mumbo jumbo" rather obvious.

The girl smiles. "I suppose you could say that."

"Yeah, well, I don't need a degree to tell me that the people here are freakin' loony. But ain't _none_ of them as loony as the one you're about to go see." The guard pauses for a second, as if a thought has just occurred to him. "Ya know, interns don't usually make contact with the inmates. Most of the time you all just sit in the doctor's offices and file the paperwork they don't wanna mess with. And I ain't _never_ taken an intern to see a high-profile inmate all by their lonesome."

"I'm not your typical intern," she replies without skipping a beat. Her smile does not falter.

The guard frowns. "Look, I may hate this job but I ain't lookin' to get fired-"

"Don't worry, I can keep a secret." There is a hint of laughter in her voice. "Besides the night nurses and guards, everyone's gone home for the night, and we're the only ones in this corridor."

She gives him a wink and his stomach flutters for a brief second. "I won't tell if you don't," she says coyly, and he grins.

"Alright." The guard shrugs and they resume their walk.

After a moment he speaks again. "Ain't you scared to go see this guy?"

"Why would I be scared?"

"Oh, I dunno know, how about 'cause the guys a freakin' psycho?" He snorts. "You college types come in here and think you know it all with your _textbooks_ and your _theories_. I see these weirdos up close and personal every day and lemme tell ya, if one of them so much as l_ooked_ in your general direction you'd be running away as fast as you could."

They come to a stop in front of a wide metallic door with the words "SOLITARY CONFINEMENT" printed across in tall, bold letters.

The girl looks up at him and her eyes meet his. They look a bit too blue to be real, he thinks to himself. Must be contacts.

"I guess it's a good thing you're here to protect me then," she says lightly, and the corners of her pale lips turn upwards into a small smirk.

The guard holds her gaze. "Yeah, I guess it is." Her eyes continue to bore into him and he turns away quickly, suppressing a shudder.

_Unnerved by a dame? Really? _This place must be getting to him. All that screaming...

He fumbles for his identification badge and holds it under the door's security scanner; after a moment it gives a _beep_ of recognition and the heavy doors slowly slide open.

They step forward into a narrow, dimly-lit corridor and the door closes behind them with a loud _clank_.

The girl lifts her hand and points towards the cell at the end of the hallway, its door solid save for a small, barred window.

"Is he in there?" the girl asks quietly, her voice shaking.

The guard grins mockingly. "What, I thought you weren't scared?"

"I'm not," she replies softly, walking towards the door.

"Wait!" the guard yells sharply, and she stops mid-stride before slowly turning to face him.

"First there are some rules ya-"

"Thank you so much for your help, but there's no need to go over protocol. I've got everything under control now."

The guard raises his eyebrows, taken aback by her suddenly brisk tone. "'Scuse me?"

The girl sighs, no longer bothering to mask her annoyance. "I said I've got-"

"'Got everything under control', yeah, I heard ya. Who do you think you're talkin' to?"

"I'm talking to someone who is testing the very last shred of my patience." The girl narrows her eyes angrily and turns back towards the cell.

The guard reaches forward and roughly grabs her arm. "Okay, time to go. You're cute and all but-"

The guard sputters when the gas hits his face and he takes a step back, releasing his hold on her. He steadies himself against the wall as he coughs, and when he looks up at her every line of his face is etched with fury.

"You little-"

He lunges at her, arms extended, and when she jumps out of his path he crashes onto the ground. She presses herself against the wall, preparing for his next attack, but the guard does not rise.

She watches as his body begins to convulse—slow, feeble movements at first, before graduating to full-on tremors.

"No...no..." the guard whispers, and she breathes a quiet sigh of relief at the familiar terror in his voice.

"No...NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The scream rips from the guard's throat as his eyes bulge in horror. "Stop it! _Stop it!_ No no _no_!"

The girl reaches down and grabs the identification card from his vest. Hands shaking, she runs down the hallway to the cell door. She presses the ID against the door's sensor, palms sweaty.

_Beep._

The cell door begins to slowly slide open and the girl's pounding heart beat drowns out the guard's screams.

_Oh my God._

Her breath catches in her throat when Jonathan Crane steps forward and out of the cell, hair long and disheveled, his beard stubble flecked with specks of gray.

Their eyes meet and for a moment they are perfectly still, as if they can hardly believe that the other is standing before them.

And then the girl rushes forward, wrapping her arms around Crane's lithe body, and his lips are on hers, burning into her skin as they travel over her hungrily. He reaches up and gently tugs the wig from her head; it falls to the floor as her dark hair spills down her back and he wraps his fingers in it, his breath hot on her neck. Tears of happiness slide down her cheeks; how long has she dreamed about this moment, craved it, lived for it, and now it's finally happening...

When they pull away Crane clears his throat, smoothing the front of his orange jumpsuit.

"It's nice to see you, Miss James," he says primly.

Teagan smiles. "It's nice to see you too, Jonathan," she replies softly.

Crane looks over her shoulder at the guard lying still on the floor, now babbling wordlessly as he stares at the ceiling with vacant eyes.

"How many are there?"

"Not many—I counted three near the front desk."

"I trust you brought enough toxin?"

"Yes. We shouldn't have any trouble leaving."

Crane nods and walks towards the door, stepping over the guard.

"Jonathan, wait-"

He feels the familiar texture of burlap pressed into his hand and his heart leaps in his chest.

"I managed to-"

His lips return to hers, silencing her, and in that moment they are the only two people in the world.

She is his experiment, his achievement, his victory.

She is his.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Chapter 2**

Rain beats down onto Crane as he runs through the streets of downtown Gotham, soaking his Arkham jumpsuit and chilling him to the bone. His sneakers are full of water, creating a sick sloshing sound with every step he takes. "How much longer?" Crane yells, struggling to make himself heard over the roaring of the rain.

"It's right here!" Teagan grabs his arm and pulls him underneath a derelict apartment building's awning. She reaches into her rain-soaked jacket pocket and retrieves a set of keys; she inserts a key into the front door's lock and pushes the door open with a heavy creak.

He follows her inside, and after she's closed and relocked the door he follows her lead up several flights of stairs until they reach a padlocked door.

Teagan selects another key and fumbles with the door's heavy padlock. There is a brief sound of chains clanking together before they fall to floor with a loud _clunk_, and the door swings open. They step inside the apartment, wet clothes dripping puddles onto the scratched, warped hardwood floor and Crane surveys his surroundings.

Even in the dark there is no concealing the peeling wallpaper exposing the molded, rotting walls, or the large brown water spots on the slightly-bowed ceiling. The apartment smells of decay and rust; it is clear that they are the first occupants it has seen in quite some time.

Still, he can tell that she's tried to make it somewhat nice—there is a small mattress carefully made-up with several blankets and pillows, a row of candles, a few books stacked neatly beside his-

In a second he's crossed the room and his fingers are wrapped tightly around the handle of his briefcase.

Crane presses the locks and the briefcase springs open, displaying dozens of small vials. The toxin glows faintly in the apartment's darkness as he gently runs his fingers across their glass, caressing them as one would a child.

Teagan beams proudly, feeling as if her heart is about to burst from happiness.

"I have some of your clothes, if you want to change—well, of _course_ you want to change-" The words bubble from her lips with excitement, eager to show him how well she's prepared. Eager to make him _proud_.

"It was kind of hard to get into your apartment after everything that happened, but eventually the police eased up on monitoring it and I was able to sneak in one night...I couldn't get everything but I did manage to grab a few changes of clothes, a pair of shoes, an extra set of glasses...Oh my god! I'm so sorry! You must be hungry—here, let me-"

Crane presses a finger to her lips and instantly Teagan falls silent.

"Is this all of the toxin?" he asks calmly.

She nods and opens her mouth to speak, but Crane presses his finger firmly against her lips, silencing her.

"Do you have copies of my notes?"'

She nods again, this time making no attempt to speak.

_Excellent. _

Crane gives her a small smile of reassurance. "Good girl," he says, and her lips turn upwards into a grin behind his finger.

He removes his hand from her mouth and gently cups her face before reaching up with his under hand to smooth her wet hair back. He can feel her tremble beneath his touch and the knowledge that her infatuation with him has not wavered in their months of separation brings him great satisfaction.

He remembers when she was a doe-eyed, shy college student hoping to gain insight in the psychiatric field and plump up her resume by interning at Arkham Asylum, and the memory makes him want to laugh. Oh, how far she's come.

His hands slide down to the buttons of her blouse; he can practically feel her heart beat beneath the soaked fabric.

"I missed you so much," she whispers in a choked voice; her body is still shaking and he knows that his hands are responsible as much as the cold is.

"I know you did," Crane says quietly, slipping the shirt from her shoulders. His fingers travel across her soft skin, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. He pulls her closer and feels her heart pounding against his chest.

"I love you." Her voice is barely above a whisper, breathless.

"I know," Crane says, and presses his lips to hers.

* * *

The morning sun's rays are bright and unforgiving, and when Crane awakes he is taken aback by it's sudden harshness. It has been over a year since he last saw the sun; in Arkham the only time he was allowed of his cell was to be transported to an interview room for therapy or to the showers. He had not even been given the luxury of an hour's time in the recreation room, where patients could sit on tattered couches and watch Gotham News Network, or look outside of the wide barred window at the expansive grounds outside and dream of one day walking through the asylum doors and never returning.

Crane raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and reaches over to pull a moth-eaten curtain across the window, instantly darkening the room. He lowers his hand and blinks repeatedly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the new darkness. _Much better_.

He briefly considers waking Teagan before quickly deciding against it; she'll cling to him the second her eyes open and he'd rather have a few moments to himself. Rising from the mattress, he quietly walks to the restroom, stepping carefully in order to avoid creaking the warped floorboards.

The bathroom is surprisingly clean, albeit damaged just like the rest of the apartment; he imagines that Teagan spent quite a bit of time and bleach making it inhabitable. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he sees the five-gallon jugs next to the bathtub—he'd thought it highly unlikely if not downright improbable that a building this decrepit would have fully-functioning pipes and even less likely that the plumbing would be turned on.

He receives another pleasant surprise when he opens the medicine cabinet to find a shaving kit containing razors, a pair of scissors, and hygiene products. _Good girl_.

Crane empties one of the jugs into the bathtub and climbs in, unable to stop himself from flinching when the cold water makes contact with his body. He lies still for a few moments, and when his body has adjusted to the temperature he begins his bath. It is nice to be able to bathe in privacy; in Arkham he had been forced to shower under the supervision of a guard and allowed no more than five minutes before he was whisked back to his cell. Compared to that experience, a cold bath in a run-down bathroom is almost luxurious.

After his bath, a shave (using a small compact mirror that he found in the kit for reflection), and changing into a pair of his own clothes he feels refreshed and better than he has since the first night he spent in his cell at Arkham.

Except for one thing.

He picks up the scissors along with a comb and walks into the other room to find Teagan wrapped up in a blanket and hovering over a hot plate. The smell of cooking beans fills the room and suddenly Crane realizes that he is famished.

She looks up at him and smiles brightly. "Hungry?"

Crane nods and she scoops a serving of beans into a bowl, handing it to him along with a spoon. "Thank you," he murmurs, before sitting on the mattress and beginning his breakfast. Teagan fills a bowl of her own and they eat in silence, Teagan watching his every movement with wide, eager eyes.

When they've finished he thanks her again before holding up the scissors. "Will you cut my hair, please?" Crane asks, and she practically jumps at the opportunity, climbing behind him and draping a blanket over his shoulders before he's even had a chance to hand her the scissors.

She runs the comb through his hair and begins to cut, taking meticulous care with each strand. He watches as his hair begins to pull in his blanket-covered lap, and after a while she carefully removes the blanket and dusts off his shirt.

"All done," she says, and he detects a hint of nervousness in her tone.

"Thank you," Crane says, reaching over the mattress to grab his briefcase. He places it gently in his lap, opening it slowly, carefully, and retrieves a thick folder from a compartment.

"Do you want a mirror to check your hair?"

"No," Crane replies, not taking his eyes away from his notes. "I trust that you have done an adequate job."

Teagan flushes with pride.

After a moment Crane looks up. "Get dressed," he says curtly. "We have work to do." He reaches into a box containing her clothing and tosses her a sweater; she catches it, pouting. She'd hoped that he would want to stay in today, maybe go back to bed...

But she has learned by now that there is no distracting Crane when he is it comes to his work, and she pulls the sweater over her head reluctantly.

"What are we doing today?" Teagan asks, fastening the sweater's buttons.

"Setting the wheels in motion for our new plan."

"Plan?"

Crane closes the briefcase with a snap. "It's simple. Before we can make any further progress we have to eliminate our largest obstacle."

Teagan's eyes widen. "You mean..."

Crane nods.

"Yes. We have to destroy Batman."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Chapter 3**

Teagan will never, ever forget the day that Batman took Crane away from her. Nor will she ever forget the hopelessness she felt when she awoke every morning to find herself alone, the devastation that had overcome her during the day when every little thing reminded her of Crane—the smell of coffee, the crisp pages of a book—and the tears she had shed at night, her body wracking with sobs before drifting into a restless sleep.

But most of all, she will never forget the anger. That red-hot, burning, searing anger that kept her going through the darkness and the uncertainty; at times she felt the rage and the hope was the only thing that kept her alive. The anger evolved into hate, and from this hate sprung vengeance and wrath.

It is for this reason that Teagan craves revenge, and why she will not rest until Batman is destroyed.

* * *

She knew he'd been working on something, something _big_, but that was the extent of her knowledge. Any questions were met with vague, non-committed answers or silence. "It's better that you not know," he'd finally said one day, and she did not ask him again.

Instead she busied herself with her work; she'd spend hours immersed in Crane's vast array of psychology books, absorbing all the information she could about fear and its effect on the mind. Biochemical reactions, emotional responses, phobias—this was her life now, and she was determined to learn as much as she possibly could. When she wasn't pouring over Plutchik or Freud, she was plotting; gathering blueprints, scanning _The Gotham Times _for upcoming fundraisers and charity balls. Destroying Arkham's Halloween Event had been a pleasurable experience in a multitude of ways, and watching the guests plunge into insanity—particularly sickly-sweet Dr. Leland—had been beyond satisfying.

And yet every time she had suggested they replicate the success of last year's Halloween, the answer had always been the same: _no_.

_Perhaps he has something else in mind_, she'd thought. _Maybe that's what this secret project is..._

It was not unusual for Crane to spend long hours at the asylum, particularly since he had begun the unnamed project; he would often come home late in the evening, take care of necessary activities such as eating and sleeping (although she often had to remind him to do both), and then return to Arkham early in the morning to do it all over again. And so when five o'clock came and went that dark day, she thought nothing of it when Crane did not arrive.

Instead she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By ten o'clock she had started to worry. Although in the past Crane had often worked late into the night at the asylum, he had discontinued that habit when the administrators expressed concern over his amount of "overtime". Not wishing to draw attention to what he was really working on in Arkham's basement, he'd ceased experimenting on the inmates and began leaving the asylum no later than seven o'clock.

_Maybe he's just stuck in traffic._

_That's probably it_, she'd told herself. She reached for the remote and turned on the rarely-used television, flipping through the channels before arriving on _Gotham New Network, _expecting to see a report on bumper to bumper, compressed traffic. She could only imagine how irritated Crane must be, surrounded by cursing idiots who think that honking their horn will make traffic move faster. Poor guy, maybe she should make him something special for dinner-

Teagan's heart sank when she saw the flashing strobe of police lights in front of Arkham Asylum.

The television screen had been a wet blur, her vision swimming as she struggled to process what was happening._ We've received word that Batman is no longer inside of the building—renowned Arkham psychiatrist found babbling in the institution's basement—we've discovered what appears to be an operation involving inmates dumping poison into Gotham's water system-_

This meant that the police would be arriving at the apartment. _Soon_.

There would be time for tears later.

She flew through the apartment, gathering her things and jamming them into a suitcase—no one can know that anyone besides Crane lived there, or else they make come looking for her with questions and demands. Searching through his desk drawers, she retrieved his files and Scarecrow's mask, placing them carefully beside her belongings inside the suitcase. Heart racing, she unlocked the desk's wide bottom drawer and gingerly removed the briefcase containing the vials of toxin. She'd see it destroyed before she'd allow Gotham PD to steal it.

Prying open the window, she stepped onto the fire escape and into the cold night air. Taking the stairs would run the risk of coming face to face with police—she'd have to do this the hard way, camouflaged by the dark. She grabbed the cases and closes the window behind her; taking a deep breath, she carefully began her descent.

_I have to get him back, I have to get him back-_

_No, don't think about that now, not right now. _

_Where is he now, what's happening to him-_

_Not now. Do you now how angry he would be if you allowed his work to fall into the hands of Gotham PD? Get a _hold_ of yourself and get _out_ of here_.

The moment her feet touched the ground she took off running, her grip on the cases like iron. Tears stung her eyes and pricked at her cheeks, sobs wracking her body as she ran.

_I'll get him back, I will. _

_And then I will make The Bat pay. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Chapter Four**

Gotham is a city built of metal and glass, sleek rows of buildings towering over concrete streets abundant with a steady flow of cars. The city thrives on noise—the blaring of a train's horn, a symphony of ringing cell phones, the droning buzz of thousands of conversations blending into one. There is asphalt and there is brick and there is mortar, but there is very little of nature. Splashes of green are confined to parks; one can sit on a bench underneath a small canopy of trees, feeling the breeze play through their hair as the grass gently sways and leaves drift onto the ground. They can close their eyes and for the briefest of moments forget that they are in a city at the mercy of criminals and corruption, where the cold and the hungry and the poor vastly outnumber the rich, pampered few, and whose savior is a man who calls himself a bat.

But when they open their eyes that moment is broken, and they return to a world of technology and traffic.

Yes, there is very little nature in Gotham.

But there is someone who intends to change that.

* * *

"Remember," Crane says, his breath forming wisps of steam in the crisp night air, "say as little is possible. The less she knows about you, the better."

Teagan nods.

"She's a very dangerous woman, Teagan. Do not forget that, not even for a second, and do not allow her provoke you." Crane's eyes bore into hers with grave seriousness and she nods again, her stomach twisting into knots of anxiety. They have done many things together that she could have never imagined in her previous life, facing danger on a sometimes nightly basis, and she herself has accomplished a great deal on her own.

But this is a different kind of danger, a different kind of risk.

Crane raises his hand and knocks on the warehouse door before them—first a rapid succession of three knocks, then two, then three more. She surmises that it is a password of sorts.

After a pause Crane pushes the door open and steps forward into the building; she follows, and once inside Teagan brings a hand to her mouth in awe.

Vines wrap around the interior of the decaying warehouse, snaking tendrils covering the bricks with lush green leaves. The floor is a carpet of rich moss, so soft that Teagan is hesitant to place her foot on it, and deeply-colored flowers surround them with wide, beckoning blooms.

_The petals look like silk, and smell so fragrant...it wouldn't hurt to touch them, just for a moment..._

She feels Crane's hand grip her wrist and she blinks, overcome with confusion as she finds herself leaning over a bloom, her hand outstretched.

"Oh come now, Jonathan, you're no fun at all."

Teagan looks up to see a tall woman walking towards them, her vibrant red hair a fiery contrast against the lush green surrounding her. As she approaches, Teagan realizes with shock that the woman _herself_ is green, her skin tinged with a creamy light shade. A flowing white sundress clings to the woman's curves, and Teagan wonders how she could possibly be warm in the night's biting chill.

"Miss Isley," Crane replies coolly, and the woman's dark green lips turn upwards into a smirk.

"Aren't you going to introduce me?" the woman asks coyly, turning her sparkling eyes towards Teagan.

"Her name is Teagan. Teagan, this is-"

"You can call me Poison Ivy, darling." Ivy reaches forward and gently runs a fingernail across Teagan's face; up close, Teagan can see that the woman is strikingly beautiful—perhaps _too_ beautiful. She struggles not to flinch at her touch; something about the woman frightens her, and it has little to do with her strange appearance.

"Hello," Teagan says quietly, hoping that Ivy does not detect her uneasiness.

Ivy smiles. "You're a very pretty girl, Teagan. I can see why Jonathan likes you." She raises an eyebrow in a mocking gesture. "He doesn't like very many people, you know."

"We're here to discuss business, Miss Isley, not ourselves," Crane says sharply, and Ivy turns to face him.

"Oh, don't be like that Jonathan," she says in a low, husky voice. "There's no reason we can't all be friends." She leans towards him, her face inches from his. Crane makes no effort to move; Teagan can feel a mixture of anger and dread rise inside of her, but remembers Crane's earlier words—_do not allow her to provoke you_—and forces herself to appear calm.

Ivy fixes Teagan with challenging eyes and presses her lips to Crane's. Teagan holds her gaze, her hands clenched into tight fists inside of her coat pocket, and swallows her revulsion and rage.

After a moment Ivy takes a step back, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Is something wrong, Miss Isley?"

"You know _damn_ well-"

"Oh, that." Crane smirks. "I came prepared this time. I'm afraid that trick won't work on me anymore."

Suddenly Teagan remembers the mysterious plant that enticed her when they first entered the warehouse, and how she'd lost herself in its bloom. Ivy herself appears to be both plant and woman—she won't even attempt to decide which side is more prevalent—and she wonders if Ivy has found a way to harness the bloom's allure.

_But what did he mean by "this time"? Had Ivy tried this before—had she _seduced _him? _The thought makes her stomach lurch and she quickly blinks back tears. _I can't think of that now. Later._

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me exactly how you managed to do that, are you?" Ivy is smiling again, but her tone contains a slight edge of anger.

"Now that would hardly be wise of me, would it, Miss Isley?"

Teagan watches in horror as vines begin to slither across the mossy floor towards them, moving with graceful speed like enormous leafy snakes. She jumps backwards, pressing her body against Crane's; he grips her shoulder and gives it a tight, reassuring squeeze, his eyes never leaving Ivy's.

"If you aren't going to play along, Jonathan," Ivy says lightly, "then I don't see any reason to continue this conversation."

"Have it your way," Crane replies calmly, "but I thought you of all people would be interested in seeing our mutual enemy destroyed."

The vines halt in their tracks and Teagan sighs inwardly with relief.

"Go on," Ivy says. "I'm listening."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**A/N:** I want to give thanks to my friend for helping me out with brainstorming for this chapter! I could not have written this without her.

**Chapter 5**

Teagan watches as Crane delicately pours the contents of a toxin vial into a beaker, his gloved hands moving with skilled precision that is developed only after years of repetitive practice. Slowly, carefully, he squeezes a small drop of dark purple liquid into the beaker; the liquid clouds the toxin like ink in water, spreading throughout the compound as it alters its chemistry. Crane's blue eyes shine with victory above his white medical mask as the watches his toxin evolve, its sinister glow radiating through the darkness of their hideaway apartment.

"Amazing" Crane whispers with satisfaction, and Teagan smiles proudly.

He pours the concoction into another vial before sealing it and placing it alongside the others in his briefcase. Closing the case with a sharp _snap_, he peels off his gloves and removes his mask, revealing a small, triumphant smirk.

"Do you think it will work?" Teagan asks, enraptured with his smile.

"Only one way to find out," Crane replies, and reaches for Scarecrow's mask.

* * *

Commissioner Gordon stands alone on Gotham City Police Department's roof, staring at the luminous bat floating in the sky. The night wind blows cold against his face and he wraps his jacket around himself tightly; he's been waiting for over an hour, and he will continue to wait for as long as it takes—he just hopes he doesn't freeze first.

"Evening, Commissioner."

When Gordon hears the deep, gravelly voice behind him he instantly forgets how cold he is and turns to face his visitor, unable to stop a faint grin from spreading across his lips.

"Nice to see you too," he remarks, stepping forward and extending his hand.

Batman's handshake is firm and quick. "What seems to be the problem?" he inquires, his voiced edged with the ever-present sense of urgency Gordon has become accustomed to.

"A murder victim."

"Unfortunate, but nothing your department can't handle."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." Gordon reaches inside of his jacket and retrieves a photograph, handing it to Batman. Batman studies the photo—a man lying on a morgue slab, skin pale with death and his features twisted into a sickening grimace of terror—and hands it back to Gordon.

"Cause of death?"

"Heart attack. Still waiting on the toxicology report-"

"-I'll need a copy of that."

"Of course. Does that mean you are interested?"

"It means I need a copy of the report."

Gordon runs a hand over his mouth. "You ever seen anything like this before? Coroner said he hadn't and he's been working in Gotham for thirty years. Said he'd never seen anyone make a face like that before, almost like they'd seen something to horrible to live through." Gordon pauses. "I know that sounds ridiculous, but you saw the photo. That man looked terrified."

"You're suggesting that this man was scared to death?" Batman's voice contains no hint of ridicule or incredulity, and for that Gordon is thankful.

"Sound like anyone we know?"

"You suspect Crane?"

"Fits the bill. And we haven't so much as caught a whiff of him since that girl broke him out of Arkham."

Batman turns away from Gordon and begins walking toward the edge of the roof. "I'll need whatever information you have—crime scene reports, photographs, autopsy information."

"I'll have it ready for you."

"Don't bother, I can access it on my own."

"Alright—hey, when will I hear from you again?"

Batman stands on the roof's edge, spreading his arms in preparation of flight. "Soon. Hopefully before the next victim."

"You think there will be another one?"

"I know there will," Batman says, and before Gordon can say another word he has jumped, soaring across the Gotham skyline to a place that Gordon neither knows nor wishes to know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Chapter 6**

Teagan stands on a pier along Gotham Docks, wind whipping through her hair and the taste of salt thick on her tongue. She absentmindedly brushes a few strands away from her face and sighs impatiently; as necessary as her entrusted task is, she can think of an infinite number of things she'd rather be doing right at this very moment, and not a single one involved leaving Crane alone with _her_.

She imagines Crane and Ivy entwined in each others' arms—Crane sick under her pheromone-induced spell, his icy blue eyes filled with lust and his lips hungry for hers—and Teagan brings a hand to her mouth in order to suppress a gag of disgust.

True, Ivy was proving herself to be a valuable asset—even Teagan could begrudgingly admit that—but still she did not trust her. Ivy is a beautiful woman, perhaps the most beautiful that Teagan has ever seen, and yet there is something unworldly about her allure, something unnatural and dark. She remembers the mysterious blooms and Crane's words—_I'm afraid that trick won't work on me anymore_—and wonders if perhaps she and Crane have made a grave mistake.

She never even asked him what exactly he had meant that night; she's not sure she wants to know.

Teagan lets out another weary sigh and glances at her watch. The buyer is late. Very, _very_ late. Were it not for their desperate need for funds—the life of a villain can be fruitless at times, and the chemicals Crane requires for his toxin carry a hefty price-tag—she doubted that Crane would bother with these exchanges. Although his specialty is fear, Crane's skills are not limited to the niche—after all, he'd had extensive training in psychopharmacology—and he had discovered a combination of chemicals that created a pleasurable affect on the brain unique to other drugs that were passed around the city. A profitable endeavor, but not one he cared to explore further than financially necessary; he much preferred to explore and manipulate the mind rather than numb it.

Unfortunately, Crane himself has been consumed by his work (even more so than usual) and so it had fallen onto Teagan to provide tonight's transaction.

She imagines that she is a less than imposing figure to their clients—short, young and petite, not to mention rather disheveled from the wind—but if any of them make the mistake of underestimating her, she has a vial of fear toxin in her pocket that will make them sorely regret it.

After all, Crane wouldn't have sent her in his place if he didn't think she could take care of herself. He cares about her and wouldn't want her to get hurt, right?

_Right?_

She shakes her head and tries to swallow the doubt that has been eating away at her ever since their meeting with Ivy. _Not now. You have a job to do._

Another glance at her watch. Maybe she should just call it a night.

Before she can decide whether or not to risk incurring Crane's displeasure—at this point, any negative attention would be an improvement over being ignored—she hears a soft _thud_ behind her. She whirls around, hand in pocket and clenched around the vial, and comes face to face with a large, towering figure. Her eyes flash to the pointed cowl and terrible realization hits her. It's funny—she'd often pictured exactly what she would do if confronted by him, how she'd exact her slow, excruciating vengeance; and yet now that the moment has arrived, she finds herself frozen in shock.

"Miss James, I presume?" His voice is deep and gravelly, like she'd imagined it would be.

"Yes?" The word seems to fall out of her mouth dumbly, and she curses herself inwardly for responding. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

"You're going to need to come with me." Batman extends a hand forward, and the courteous gesture looks bizarre coming from a man dressed like a large bat. "I can help you."

"Help me?" she asks weakly. She knows she should run, strike at him, do _something_, but she remains rooted to the spot.

Batman takes a step towards her. "I know Crane's manipulating you, Miss James. I can only imagine what he's done to you, or what he's told you, but I can assure you—"

The sudden rush of anger she feels is enough to jolt her from her shocked daze, and in the blink of an eye she's removed her hand from her pocket and flung the vial at him. It bursts against his chest, and as the cloud of toxin begins to spread she turns on her heels and runs faster than she ever has in her life.

She doesn't get far before he catches her, scooping her into his arms with an iron grip. She punches and kicks at him, clawing at his mask before she feels a sharp pang in her arm. She begans to feel woozy, her hands heavy and foreign; she hears a _woosh_ of rope whipping through the air and the sound of metal striking brick, and then they are soaring up towards the skyline, impossibly high, and her last thought before slipping into unconsciousness is that all those stories are true—he really _can_ fly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Chapter 7**

Crane glances at his watch impatiently, his brow furrowed in displeasure. Teagan should have been arrived back two hours ago, and yet there has been no sign of her; every few minutes he thinks that he hears the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs or the rattle of a key in the front door's padlock, and his heart skips a beat before disappointment sets in and he realizes that the sounds were a combination of wishful thinking and a creaking, decaying building.

"Are you worried about your pretty girl, Jonathan?" Ivy's voice coos in his ear, walking her fingers across his shoulders and down his chest to fumble at his tie. He smacks her hand away, fixing her with an angry glare that she returns with a derisive laugh. Her flirtations are done out of mockery rather than genuine attraction—he imagines that she likely finds him as repulsive as he finds her—and because she knows that human contact (with Teagan being the exception) both frightens and disgusts him.

"Stop that," Crane says sharply. "I've asked you repeatedly to—"

"To what, Jonathan?" Ivy turns her bottom lip downwards into an exaggerated pout, batting her thick eyelashes with phony innocence. "Am I disturbing you?"

Crane says nothing, instead turning his gaze back to his research and his watch.

A few silent moments pass before she's back at his ear. "Do you want me to go look for her? I certainly don't mind. We might even get a chance to have a little bit of girl talk, you know, compare stories—"

He rises from his chair. "I'll do it," he says, reaching for his coat. "I don't want you anywhere near her without me around."

"And why is that? Are you afraid of what I might say? Don't worry, I can keep a secret." Ivy gives him a predatory wink that makes his stomach turn with revulsion and anxiety.

She watches him as he buttons his coat and wraps a scarf around his neck, appraising his every movement. "Why don't you like me, Jonathan?" Ivy asks coyly, her every word drenched in venom. "Would you prefer I act like a meek little mouse, scared of my own shadow and too afraid to open my mouth?" She smirks. "That appears to be your type."

Crane turns to her, his eyes narrowed in anger. "I would be careful if I were you, Miss Isley. How quickly you forget that even with all your..._talents_, you have your limitations. You aren't nearly as powerful as you think you are."

Ivy scoffs. "Oh really?"

"Indeed. I have gifts of my own, and unless you want to find yourself on the receiving end of a specially-crafted cocktail of fear toxin and weed killer, I would suggest that you acquaint yourself with boundaries and remember that your role is to assist me in my plan and nothing more. Silence is a virtue, Miss Isley, and if I find out that you've been filling my assistant's head with fallacies and tales, the upcoming winter will be the least of your plant's concerns."

And with that Crane slammed the door behind him so hard that the deteriorating frame shook and small pieces of sheetrock floated down from the ceiling, drifting across the room like snowflakes before landing in a fuming Ivy's thick red hair.

* * *

The last time Teagan had been at Arkham Asylum, it was under the guise of an assistant during the asylum's Halloween charity ball. She could still vividly recall the symphony of the patrons' screams as fear toxin flooded the room, and the smell of pumpkin in the air when she awoke from her own nightmare in a pile of broken Jack O' Lanterns, her hair matted with clots of ripe pumpkin pulp. Her previous endeavors at the asylum were as an intern during her empty, pre-enlighted days as a Gotham University student; she could not help but smile when remembering her excitement and her anxiety when she first learned that she had been chosen for Arkham's prestigious internship program, and that she would be working under the highly-regarded Dr. Crane, whose published works regarding Jungian archetypes she often poured over in admiration. Little did she know what lay ahead for her inside those asylum walls...

But this trip to Arkham was under very different circumstances, and she was now viewing the asylum from a completely different perspective: as a patient.

Dr. Leland still had the same sickeningly-sweet, nauseating smile as ever—the only difference was this time there was an edge of pity and sadness. Teagan could not help but wonder if Leland still had nightmares about the ill-fated Halloween ball; she hoped that she did.

"Hello, Teagan," Dr. Joan Leland says. She is trying to be warm, but is unable to keep the distress out of her voice; when she looks at Teagan, she sees wasted potential, wasted youth, wasted life. She remembers the timid but bright girl preparing for her future, and despite her professional resolve she blinks back tears.

Teagan chews on the inside of her cheek in silence, disgusted by Leland's misguided emotion and short-sighted perception. Typical behavior for the unenlightened.

"I want to help you, Teagan," Leland says, reaching forward to place a consoling hand atop Teagan's. Teagan jumps backwards instinctively, her handcuffs rattling, and the guard clasps a firm hand onto her shoulder. "No sudden movements, sweetheart," he says in an aggressive, commanding tone, and she shrugs him off, repelled by the pet name and his touch.

"It's alright, it's alright," Leland reassures the guard. "She didn't mean anything aggressive, did you, Teagan?"

Teagan remains silent, her gaze planted firmly on her Arkham-issued Velcro sneakers and her jaw set in defiance.

"I'll tell you what, Teagan," Leland says quietly. "You don't have to talk until you're ready. I can't imagine what you've gone through." Her voice wavers for a brief moment, and she sighs heavily before continuing. "But when you are ready, just let a guard know and I'll talk to you immediately. It doesn't even matter what time it is. Okay?"

Knowing that she will not receive a response, Leland rises from her seat and nods toward the guard to signal the end of their meeting before giving Teagan a final, sad glance and exiting the room.

"On your feet, princess," the guard says gruffly, lifting Teagan up by one of her arms. She winces beneath his harsh grip, causing him to sneer. "Aw, am I too rough for you? This ain't the Iceberg Lounge, sweetie, you ain't getting no star treatment just 'cause your little boyfriend runs around with a mask. The sooner you figure that out, the better."

She remains silent, her expression stony and blank as they travel down the hallway she had walked freely so many times in the past before arriving at the solitary confinement block, where the guard unceremoniously pushes her into a cell and slams the door.

She waits until the sound of his footsteps have faded away into silence, and only then does she allow herself to cry.


End file.
